


royal flush

by kay_emm_gee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Flirting, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery just finds it amusing when she can make Jon blush (and somehow sweet when he can make her do the same).</p><p>{ or: 3 times Margaery makes Jon blush + 1 time it's the other way around }</p>
            </blockquote>





	royal flush

**Author's Note:**

> on a sudden feels train with these two, so here have some ridiculously unlikely (and very early) canon divergence
> 
> (and on that note: Robert never married Cersei or at all but still had lots of sex hence he named Gendry as his heir because #idowhatiwant - also means none of the canon drama happened because i just want my faves to be happy...um Jon Arryn still died tho)
> 
> also i've never read the books so it's just based on show characterization etc

**_i._ **

The first time, she wasn’t even trying. Margaery was simply standing in the Great Hall with the rest of the simpering and scheming courtiers summoned by King Robert to welcome the Stark family to King’s Landing. The arrival of Ned Stark as the new Hand of the King was enough to send the gossips into a tizzy, let alone half of his children accompanying him. Of particular note, however, was the eldest, Jon. Though a bastard, he had been recognized by his father since birth. Considering the King himself had named his own bastard as heir, it shouldn’t have fascinated people as much as it did. Still, they gawked and whispered as the king introduced the family to the court.

As Margaery looked up at the young man, who was shifting uncomfortably up on the dais, she observed nothing extraordinary about him except that he was rather handsome. The gossip, then, seemed to have more to do with who his father was--the _honorable_ Ned Stark, who still had born and then naturalized a bastard son--than the son himself. Jon was pale, like most Northeners, and his hair was unruly, more curly than his brother Robb’s. His shoulders were stiff and his expression stiffer. Margaery near pitied him because _oh_ how the vipers at court would eat him alive if he continued to act like a wolf backed into a corner.

She really should not have been staring so long at him. Her grandmother would never approve of such a blatant show of curiosity (at least, not as a woman her age--one had to be old to earn that right apparently). Robert was a bore however, and Margaery had to find something to hold her attention. So she kept looking at Jon, taking in bits and pieces of him as she bit back a smile at his obvious uneasiness. The next time she looked up at his face, however, he was looking back.

If you asked her later what made her do it, Margaery couldn’t have said what possessed her to bit her lip coyly and give him the slightest wink. Maybe it was boredom; maybe it was the need for a little rebellion in the face of so much pomp and circumstance. Whatever the reason, she was glad she had done it because the brilliant red that flushed across Jon’s face suddenly made this event so very much more interesting.

It nearly made her laugh out loud, and her brother certainly noticed her barely contained amusement.

“Easy, sister,” he whispered under his breath. She elbowed him softly, and he stepped on her toe in retaliation.

The ribbing stopped when their grandmother let out a knowing huff from in front of them, sensing her grandchildrens’ fidgeting.

Jon didn’t look her way again that afternoon, but Margaery did not concern herself with that. As they would both be at court for the foreseeable future, she had no doubt she would have plenty of chances to make him blush again and keep herself endlessly amused in otherwise dull situations.

 

* * *

 

 

**_ii._ **

It was stifling hot in the hall, but it wasn’t why she had worn the dress. If she had been attending a feast such as this on top of the Wall, she would’ve worn it, cutouts and nearly sheer fabric and plunging neckline and all. It was made to attract suitors who had the mettle to handle a woman who could wear it and to repel those who were disgusted at its brazenness or too timid to deal with it, and her by extension.

It was a gamble, wearing something so bold to an evening feast held by the king, but her family had not objected. Her father had barely looked at her twice since sitting down as he was busier trying to catch Ned Stark’s attention (and the prestige that went with such acknowledgement). Loras had merely chuckled, and her grandmother had just sighed in resignation before impatiently waving to the serving boy for more wine.

Margaery was aware of the looks she was garnering. The majority were appreciative, and a little thrill went through her each time someone’s gaze swept over her. She was also aware, however, of the looks she was _not_ garnering. Of course Jon was studiously and very consciously not looking at her and the peeks of skin she was showing.

So maybe she laughed a little louder than usual. Maybe she stood up to lean over the table for more bread, slyly glancing in his direction while she did so. Sooner or later, he would have to look in her direction, because the hall wasn’t that large. She would make sure there was something good for him to look at when he finally did.

As it would be, Margaery almost missed it. She was caught up in a story her brother was telling, her sides aching from laughter. It was only when she reached for her wine cup that she noted Jon focusing on her. Quickly but smoothly, she raised the cup to her lips but just let it hover there. She lifted her other hand up and teasingly danced her fingers along the edge of her neckline that bared her cleavage and dipped almost to her navel. To finish off the picture, she raised one eyebrow in question as she looked straight into his dark eyes.

He choked on his drink, turned red again, and immediately averted his gaze. While he might have gotten away with using the wine as an excuse for his sudden blush, Robb was also looking her way and started laughing at his brother’s embarrassment. Margaery watched as Jon sullenly shoved some more food into his mouth, hunching over his plate, even as he brother leaned in. Robb was whispering to Jon, even as he flicked amused glances at her. In solidarity with what she assumed was good-hearted sibling teasing, she raised her glass at him in a silent toast. He winked back at her and then ruffled his elder brother’s hair.

“Leave the poor boy alone, Margaery,” her grandmother scolded lightly when she turned her attention back to the table. “You’ll be bored before you know it, and then you’ll have flustered him into thinking he needs to offer for you simply because you batted your eyelashes at him one too many times. He is Ned Stark’s son, after all.”

“It won’t come to that, grandmother,” she assured her, leaning in to squeeze her arm affectionately. “Besides, I doubt he’ll have much say in his own marriage, not as the Warden of the North’s heir.”

“The cattle are already lining up,” Lady Olenna muttered, nodding to the groups of women who were inching closer and closer to the Stark table, tittering and giggling and blushing almost as much as Jon had earlier.

Margaery frowned at the sight, and her spine tensed uneasily. With a toss of her head, however, she shook off the sensation. She was wearing a dress that would make most men--and women--lose their heads and there was much more wine to be had.

She wasn’t one to do the chasing, anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

**_iii._ **

It was fun to play this game with Jon, an altered version of hide-and-seek. The more pointedly he avoided glancing in her direction, the more she honed in on him. Even if it also made her equally more aware of him--sensing whenever he walked in room, or left one, or simply moved or smiled or even just dipped his head--Margaery didn’t give much attention to the way her stomach fluttered whenever Jon passed her by.

That magical ability she had developed of knowing when he was near alerted her during a walk in the royal gardens that he was hidden in one of the hedged alcoves. With ease, she convinced the ladies in her group to take their sitting break right on the other side. And, with equal ease and mischievous intention, she initiated a conversation of which man at court would be the best at bedding.

The girls were highly unoriginal in their choices (Gendry for his position, Robb for his charm, and so it went). Margaery just leaned back on her bench and raised her face to the sunlight, half-smiling as she waited her turn.

“And you, cousin?” Elinor asked.

Without even a pause, Margaery casually announced, “Jon Stark.”

A chorus of laughs and surprised cries went up from her friends.

“He’s handsome but so shy!” Alla observed. “Not usually your type.”

“Reserved just means he’s private.” Margaery shrugged, some slyness in the movement. “And when he _is_ in private, I would wager Jon is not the kind of man to be so...quiet. Nor to let his partner be unmoved. Besides, wouldn’t you want to know what it feels like to have that scruff rubbing against the skin of your thighs, and then between them--” she broke off with a laugh, because the girls looked absolutely shocked but in a thoughtful sort of way.

In the silence, she swore she heard a soft splutter from the other side of the hedge, and she couldn’t resist laughing louder. The girls joined in, unaware that her amusement lay not from their maidenly reaction but from the sound of footsteps scrambling quickly away.

Given how blotchy Jon’s cheeks turned when she saw him next, Margaery could only imagine how flushed they must have been earlier that afternoon in the garden. She really should stop soon, because she did not want to bother him truly, just tease the reservation out of him. It was almost sweet, the way he held onto politeness and decency in a world that so highly rewarded those who discarded such things.

And if it was only in the latest hours, when she lay awake in bed thinking of him and his smile that she so rarely saw, that Margaery sighed with bittersweet resignation at the thought of court driving that sweetness from him, well, only she would know that some little part of her heart hadn’t grown up as much as the rest of her had.

 

* * *

 

 

**_+i._ **

Even as much as she eavesdropped on conversations all over court, sometimes Margaery forgot to steel herself against any unkind words she would hear about herself while fishing for gossip. She had snuck down to the kitchens to steal some sweets for her and her cousins’ picnic the next day and passed by a small chamber in which some of the young lords were drinking and singing and talking. It was almost instinct to linger in the shadows right outside the door and listen in; she hadn’t thought twice about it.

It was only when her name crossed their lips, followed by crude comments about her body and her reputation that made even her experienced ears ring, that she regretted the stop. She gritted her teeth because of course men were going to think a certain way about her, given the way she dressed. It was well worth a few bruises to her pride and honor for the power that it afforded her over the very same men. There was only so many ways a woman in her world could climb high; she was never very often ashamed of how she chose to do it.

Then they struck the killing blow, though, when one of the men ( _oh,_ how she wished she could see his face to know who her brother should challenge in the ring next) commented, “She apparently rolls around in the hay with whomever gives her a second look, like a pig, so it is no wonder her nose looks like it does.”

“Despite the nose, I wouldn’t mind rutting with her in a barn, just like the animals do,” another rough voice laughed.

More joined in, and the sound grew slightly menacing. Margaery felt her throat burn with anger and embarrassment, and she defensively reached a hand up to push down the tip of her nose with her thumb. Whispers of her cousin Allana’s laughter and oinking echoed in her memory, and furious tears threatened to spill down her heated cheeks.

“Aye by that logic, one would think you’ve never won a fighting match, Alan,” someone interrupted, and it took her a minute to realize it was Jon. “Considering I’ve seen you hold a sword, and my little brother Bran does it far better than you do.”

Aside from a single stifled laugh, dead silence had fallen over the room. Margaery watched light cast from the fire inside flicker over the stones of the hallway floor with baited breath.

A beat later, Jon continued, “And if we continue with your way of thinking, you, Kevan, must shit yourself every time a girl laughs at your admittedly unfunny jokes because I’m not quite sure what else that pinched expression could be for.”

He continued, his voice getting lighter with each jest regarding how appearance had nothing to do with truth about a person’s nature, until he had the other men laughing with him. The tension had been defused, but his immediate and fierce defense of her, however well-masked later by humor, stayed with her long after she had left the room behind.

Jon had been kind to her, even when she had not been there to witness it. He had been _kind_ , even when there was no gratitude or debt to be won from the gesture. Margaery couldn’t resist a shy smile as she crawled back into bed and had to press a palm to her warm cheeks as she realized how truly good Jon Stark was.

So when he asked for her a turn around the dance floor a few nights later, she stood, curtsied, and accepted with a warm and genuine smile. Her grandmother, her brother, her father--and what felt like the whole hall--watched with surprise as she let Jon escort her onto the floor, because while Margaery danced frequently at balls, she did _not_ dance with anyone like Jon Stark.

Jon never tried to slip his hand across her arse or accidentally brush her breast their entire time on the floor like many others had done, but Margaery still had burning cheeks by the time the song had finished. The way he kept close, but not too much so, and looked at her intimately, but not like she was a thing for him to win, did more for her heart--and other parts--than she could ever have expected.

It took her even more by surprise that when they locked eyes after a farewell curtsey and bow, Jon gave her a small but definite wink followed by a slight but very much teasing smile.

Her lips parted in shock and then curved up in utter delight because in this world of decadence and insincerity the gods had put her in the path of someone who could play the game without losing his genuineness. It was then and there that Margaery gave her heart away, and she knew nothing in the world--not her family’s wants or a crown or all the riches in Westeros--could convince her to marry anyone else.

(By the time they were married, Jon had nearly surpassed her in their game of blushes, and with all the dirty things he whispered in her ear during their wedding feast, Margaery might almost have admitted he had won.)


End file.
